


Hell Is in the Details

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Hell, Season/Series 04, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:38:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you have enough imagination and time, you can turn anything into an instrument of torture and death. In Hell, they had enough of both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell Is in the Details

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ад в деталях](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3972082) by [Lupa_gangrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lupa_gangrel/pseuds/Lupa_gangrel)



**Hell Is in the Details**  
by hunenka  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Pairing(s): none  
Rating: explicit  
Warnings: descriptions of rape, torture and death, general morbidity  
Summary: When you have enough imagination and time, you can turn anything into an instrument of torture and death. In Hell, they had enough of both.

=====

It’s dinner time and Sam promised to get real food, so Dean walks down the stairs of Bobby’s house, goes through the hall and stands in the door to Bobby’s kitchen.

Sam and Bobby are already waiting for him.

The kitchen isn’t really that small, it’s open into the library and it’s got several windows, but still, the space seems to be closing around him.

(Being locked up in a solitary cell, with no food, no water, no light, no company, just nothing… It can take over a week before you die. The first few days, the thirst and hunger seem unbearable; then those needs go away. You just lie there, weak and unable to move, but perfectly aware of what is going on with you, how it’s going to end.)

There’s an old, battered fridge in the corner to Dean’s right, humming quietly.

(Freezing to death is one of the better ways to go. At first, the cold bites into your skin, but soon you lose feeling in your extremities. It takes some time, but once the hypothermia sets in, you start to feel numb and sleepy, peaceful even.)

There’s water in the sink, probably still containing the unwashed dishes from earlier.

(Drowning is scary, especially when there’s inhumanly strong hands holding your head underwater until your lungs are burning, you can’t think, there’s darkness dancing around you and you start panicking because no matter how much you wish to die, your body still wants to live, is still scared to die. And then they pull you out, laughing as you cough up water, gulp for air, shaking and miserable in their hands. Then it starts over again. Only when they’ve grown bored because you’ve become too unresponsive to be amusing anymore, they finally hold you under long enough for the now-welcome calmness of death to come.)

The dinner is already waiting on the table across the room.

(Strong hands holding you down, bending you over a flat surface, kicking your legs apart. Laughing. You fight them as hard as you can, but in the end you lose, you always lose, and they rape you over and over again, taking turns, hard and brutal, causing as much damage as possible. Then they leave you to bleed out. But bleeding out just from those wounds – horrible and painful as they are – can take a long time, and you lie there, feeling the life slipping out of you together with their come and your blood.)

A glass jug of water stands in the middle of the table, probably Sam’s attempt at making Dean eat some vitamins.

(Sharp shards of glass cutting into your skin, shredding your flesh. There are pieces large enough to cut bone-deep. There are pieces small enough that no part of you, no crevice of your body is safe.)

There’s steak on the plates, rare as they’ve always liked it.

(Red-hot iron pressing into your skin, making it sizzle and peel, then getting to the flesh underneath. The stench of your own flesh burning is disgusting, the pain unbearable, too sharp and acute to be pushed away. They don’t stop until every inch of you is covered in burns, inside and out.)

Sam’s obviously been trying to make the dinner nice, the knives and forks are lying on napkins beside the plates.

(There are so many kinds of blades, long and short, curved and straight, serrated or smooth. There’s the skinning blade. Sometimes they just flay you alive and then leave you to die of shock and infection. Sometimes they continue, dissecting your flesh until they get to the bone.)

There’s a saltshaker and a pepperbox in case they need them.

(Just when you think that today’s session is over, when the whipping has stopped and you’re just beginning to get the pain under control, there are hands rubbing something into the wounds, raw nerve endings singing with new pain, more agony. Of course they weren’t done yet. They are never done.)

These are the things that Dean knows and cannot forget. But those things have no place here; there is no reason to burden Sam or Bobby with them.

So he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to regain composure, to calm his breathing.

He enters the room, passes the fridge and the sink, sits at the table. He pours himself a glass of water, picks up the knife and fork and cuts into his steak, reaches for the pepperbox.

He looks up at Sam and Bobby and gives them a smile. “So, any new cases?”

The End


End file.
